THE TWENTY-FOURTH PAGE

Everyone knew that the book business was booming in novels cooked up by people who couldn’t write for people who couldn’t read. Millions of paperbacks were spewing forth with plots as old as the Bible, points of view wandering aimlessly through the brains of the characters, and narrative shifts as swift as a cut to a television commercial. Should I try my hand?

Surely.

I should have known better, but had I not spent more than two decades in sifting out the elements for books that sold? Surely, I knew what worked and didn’t work.

It wasn’t about money. I knew that most books made nothing beyond the modest advance for an author.

Nevertheless, one morning I set the alarm for six a.m. and readied myself for a perch in front of the typewriter an hour later. I did not allow myself to be moved--excepting modest bodily needs--from that position until one p.m.